


Coming Home

by sporksoma



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Brooding, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Hawke being Hawke, Home is who you're with, Pining, Purple Hawke, Silly Hawke, brooding elves, not where you are, relieved hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporksoma/pseuds/sporksoma
Summary: What happens after Hawke is met by Fenris at Skyhold?  Companion to "Waiting for Home."





	

A bath was truly the only thing that Marian Hawke wanted, at that particular moment.

Food could wait; she had eaten what passed for lunch, anyway, even if it had been hours and miles ago and she had been through emotional turmoil and some intense physical activity since then. It could wait, because she filthy, and grimy, and still had blood on her from Adamant and also probably some demon ichor still, which wasn't lovely at all, either the idea of it or the reality of it.

And she was messy in…other respects, too. Somehow, she had wound up with bruises on her neck, as well, and if _that_ wasn’t obvious (and a Fenris trademark special after time spent apart; it was almost as if the man felt he had to physically _mark_ her to show the world “Look, this is Marian Hawke and she’s _mine_ so hands off, you assholes!) and if she weren’t damnably sure to get _all the commentary_ over it…

Ah well. It was nice knowing Dorian, at least, while she did. She didn’t expect him to live through the next few days, even if the man _did_ prefer the company of men over women. One flirt, plus the man being a mage and from _Tevinter_ , and Fenris would hold his heart in his hands. Quite literally. And Dorian, for one, wasn’t a man who was known to let sleeping dogs lie, or let love-marks go unmentioned.

But, all-in-all, Marian _needed that bath_. And so after she finally managed to convince Fenris that yes, she was there, really there, and she wasn’t going anywhere, and had told him several times that she was sorry and nearly had herself convinced that he might forgive her for running off with the barest minimum of a note ( _eventually forgive, although she didn’t deserve it, not after this, not after nearly staying behind and dying and leaving him forever, and Maker’s breath, he would find that out sooner or later, because if she didn’t tell him then Varric, the damnable gossip, would_ ) and… well, she needed the bath, and she promised him he could attend her while she was getting it, and so that should be good and happy between the two of them, yes?

Assuming he didn’t decide to go for round two once she was in there. As much as she enjoyed the idea of sex with her husband, Maker’s Light, she needed a bath.

* * *

 

Most of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle, forward guards, and assorted hangers-on had arrived at Skyhold by that point, and, as Hawke could remember, from returning to Skyhold from Crestwood, everyone wanted a bath and a meal. The smells of cooking food wafted through the entire Keep and those not already gifted with magic were rushing back and forth for _baths_. Everyone wanted baths; there were not enough inns and taverns and places to camp between Adamant and Skyhold to serve everyone who wanted, and thus the majority of the troops went without. Now it was Bathtime at Skyhold, and that idea alone was enough to make Hawke giggle. The fact that she was running on fumes and spit at that point did not add to her mental stability.

The _best_ part about being a mage was the ability to create ice from the water vapor in the air, and then use minute amounts of fire to melt the ice and have a tub full of water as hot as you’d like in mere moments, without the need to haul buckets of water or depend on dwarven ingenuity to assure that you’ll get what you’re after. Soaps for body and hair, towels, washing clothes, a change of smalls and a fresh, clean robe (and where in Thedas did she get a clean robe? Oh; must have been left in her room from when she was there last. Not her best by any means, but clean was clean, and she doubted she needed that level of enchantment on her robes if she were just bathing and eating and probably getting ravished by Fenris another half dozen times. Although, come to think of it, she _might_ need the enchantments to be able to survive Fenris; the man got greedy, at times, she thought, smugly.)

For his part, Fenris leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his eyes not leaving her. Hawke rolled her eyes theatrically at him and grinned as she pulled off her dirty, dusty things. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, already knowing his answer.

“Admiring the view,” he admitted, that little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven, suddenly?”

“I wouldn’t consider yourself forgiven just yet.” Hawke put her hand to her head, dramatically, and feigned swooning.

“Alas, that my own husband would use me in such a manner!” His scowl was answered with a cackle of laughter; his scowls were the _best_ , and her playful dramatics always pulled them out of him. “Really, Fenris, you’re going to have to forgive me sooner or later, and it’s been a whole, what, four hours? Four hours, Fenris! Since I got back. You certainly know how to hold a grudge.”

He grunted in return, eyes sliding off her and looking into himself, off in the distance. Not the response she was hoping for. “Hey, Fenris, stay with me, okay?” He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable, but brought his eyes back, eventually to her face. “I’m here. I’ll get a bath, we’ll eat something, and then we’ll drink ourselves stupid with Varric and probably not end up back in our room until either really late or tomorrow, right?”

“You certainly have an odd idea of how to be welcomed back,” he rumbled, but his shoulders relaxed and his stance eased, so Hawke settled into the large, stonework tub with a groan of relief, feeling the surrounding heat of the water soak into her skin and bones.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, suddenly, and it jolted her up and out of the water. She was never “Hawke” in private, unless he was angry or concerned about something. “Hawke” was nearly a title to him, especially the way he signed his name, now, despite being married for nearly four years.

“Wha--?”

“Hawke, where is your mabari?” He sounded wary, and a jolt of sadness went through her as surely as surprise had done a moment ago. Maker’s breath, she needed to relax.

“Weezl… There was a lot of fighting, at Adamant,” she began, dashing at the tears that already started in her eyes. “We got separated, when… When I went into the Fade. Fell into the Fade, with the others. And… I couldn’t find him, after.”

“Oh, Marian,” he breathed. She sniffled, hard, trying to push back the tears, trying to stop _crying_. She had cried over him every day since returning from that wretched place and not finding him, and she needed…. she needed…. “Marian, I am sorry. I should not have brought it up.”

“He was a _good boy_ ,” she said, and that summed up all of it and summed up none of it at all. He _had_ been a good boy; loyal, loving, and always by her side for years. Mabari tended to not be a long-lived breed, because of their use in the Ferelden forces, and this year would have been his eighteenth, anyway.

“ _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_ ,” Fenris recited, softly. Hawke could not translate it, but the tone was one of sadness, and she could not stand to hear the meaning, now. She needed to push the thoughts out of her mind, needed to focus on something that didn’t involve the death of her friend and companion.

“What’s the news, Fenris?”

“You’d know that better than I, Marian,” he replied. “Now finish your bath, so we can eat. No talking about things we cannot change.”

“Yes, ser,” she replied, faking a smile and trying to add a bit of snark to her voice.  Better to not think on Weezl, and better to let sleeping dogs lie, sometimes.

* * *

 

Bathing done, and Fenris getting plenty of good shots of her being naked, she toweled off and dressed as they discussed their next step.

“We will eat wherever you wish,” he kept assuring her.

“Fenris, I’ve been eating travel rations for weeks, now. All I wish is for a hot, properly prepared meal, preferably covered with some sort of gravy and enough of it to make me fat. And something to drink that isn’t weak tea or water. Ale, wine, whiskey, for a start. I don’t suppose you brought any of that rum Isabella left for us, last time she was by to visit?”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on alcohol when I left,” he told her, dryly. “But if you wish, we can eat at the tavern. Cabot makes a surprisingly good stew and the ale there is better than The Hanged Man’s… well, anything, really. I wasn’t aware that taverns _could be_ that clean and respectable.”

“You, ser, haven’t lived. I have been neglect in my duties towards you.” She combed out her damp hair with her fingers and closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of being actually clean for the first time in weeks. No blood, no demon ichor… “Fenris, I smell good, now, right?”

Two steps and two heartbeats and he was holding her in his arms, his face nuzzling into her hair and his hands roving over her. He took a deep breath, inhaling her scent, and his fingers closed in on her, hard enough that she was afraid he would leave bruises even through the robes. “You smell… good enough to eat, Marian,” he replied, his voice thick.  She knew _that_ tone.

She laughed softly, trying to head off the situation.  She had needed a bath, earlier, and now she needed _food_. “So, better than I did earlier, and you still weren’t put off from me.”

“Better than earlier,” he agreed, dragging his lips down her cheek to her throat.

“Fen- _RIS_ ,” she scolded, playfully swatting at him. “I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” he assured her, parting his lips to suckle at his favorite spot on her neck. How had he missed that spot earlier, she wondered? She would look like a leper, for sure. Maker’s tits, she wasn’t going to hear the end of this.

“Fenris,” she tried again, her voice slightly more serious. “I haven’t hardly eaten. You don’t want me to starve to death, do you? Then how will I keep you up all night with my inane ramblings?”

“Be quiet,” he told her, sliding lips back up to her mouth. He pressed quick kisses against her lips several times. “You talk too much, Marian,” he said, not the first time he had made the accusation, not even the first time in similar circumstances.

“Food, or else I’m sleeping in Varric’s room tonight.” He pulled away from her slightly and looked a little bit horrified, which brought a cheeky grin to her face. “Food, Fenris.”

“Food,” he agreed, huffing slightly. “You smell like…. A forest. After the rain.”

“New soap,” she replied. “I’d heard somewhere that elves like to frolic in forests. Rain optional.”

“I never frolicked with Merrill,” he replied, gruffly. “Why would I frolic now?”

“You never frolicked with Merrill because you hated her. You need to let your inner elf out, some time.”

“Will you frolic with me, if I agree to this?” he deadpanned.

“I might be talked into it. It depends on if clothing is optional.”

“Are you planning on others being there? Other than you and I?”

“It depends on if clothing is optional,” she said, again.

* * *

“Andraste’s ass, Hawke, if you don’t slow down you’re going to make yourself sick,” Varric said, watching in slightly horrified fascination as Hawke started in on her second bowl of stew.  
  
“Varric,” she warned.  
  
“You’re going to get fat if you keep eating like that.”  
  
“I’m eating for two, now,” she replied, haughtily.  Varric and Fenris stared at her, both with a mix of horror and wonder on their faces.  
  
“… eating… for two?” Fenris asked, slowly, confused.  
  
“Congratulations, Hawke family,” Varric finally managed to choke out.  Hawke laughed and shook her head.  
  
“Varric, you should look up ‘gullible’ in the dictionary.  It’s got your face beside it.”  
  
“I think I missed the joke,” Fenris finally managed.  
  
“Hawke was joking that she was pregnant.  ‘Eating for two’?”  Fenris looked even more horrified than before, not sparing Varric from his glare.  
  
“Hawke, you are not pregnant,” he protested.  
  
“I’m just looking for an excuse to get to steal your stew,” she promised.  
  
“Hawke.”  
  
“Fenris.”  
  
“You’re not… pregnant.  You’re _not_.”  Maker, but that man could put layers of meaning into his words.  
  
“No, Fenris,” she replied, sighing.   
  
“Not yet,” he said.  Varric chuckled.  If she didn't put an end to this, there would be manly high-fives and discussions about how to keep her barefoot and in the kitchen.  
  
“I would throw this bread at you, but that seems like a waste of perfectly good bread.”  She slumped in her chair a little bit.  “Maker’s breath, Varric, did you leave your sense of humor in the fade, as well?”  
  
“Not much to laugh at lately, Hawke, and you know it.”   
  
“Try looking in a mirror sometime,” she grumped, before taking a big bite of the delicious potato and carrots that made up the bulk of the stew.  She chewed thoughtfully.  “At least you didn’t leave Bianca in the Fade, right?”  
  
“Thank the Maker for small miracles.”  
  
Fenris had been sitting, seemingly patiently, the entire conversation.  However, there had obviously been too many mentions of the Fade.  “Hawke, what is this about going into the Fade?”  She winced and  kept her eyes closed, then ran a hand through her hair, trying to hold off the conversation, hoping against hope that Varric would step up and, storyteller that he was, make her out to be the hero he always painted her as.  
  
“I’m not touching this one, Hawke,” he said, softly.  
  
“Your betrayal is noted, ser dwarf.”  
  
“Hawke,” Fenris said, low and warning, and she sighed and nearly threw her spoon against the bowl.  
  
“Fenris, I really wanted to put this off until after I was through eating.”  She shrugged uncomfortably and took a long drink of the ale in front of her before continuing.  “It’s not a happy story and it doesn’t have much of a happy ending, you understand?”  
  
“I know that something happened and you left Warden Alistair there to die.  What _happened_ , Hawke?  Why are you –we—fighting against Corypheus again?  We left him dead, there in the old prison!”  
  
She was quiet for a moment, then said, in a soft voice, “Let’s not talk about things we can’t change tonight, Fenris.  Give me the rest of the night to pretend things are normal and that Adamant didn’t happen, and it can be real again in the morning.  Just a night, Fenris, please?”  
  
“A night,” he agreed, sullenly.  “If you need it, you have your night.  But you have to tell me, in the morning, Hawke.  I have to know what we’re up against so I can protect you.”  
  
She darted a glare towards Varric, but the dwarf just held up his hands.  “He was going to find out sooner or later, Hawke,” he said, defensively, and she shrugged again, feeling the tension growing in her neck and back.  
  
“He didn’t have to find out tonight, though.  If you want him to know so badly, why don’t you take him back to your palatial suite and tell him, while I finish up your meals and get rip-roaringly drunk?  You can fetch me in an hour or so, I’ll need help to get back to my room.”  
  
Varric and Fenris shared a glance, and then as one:  
  
“I just got you back, I’m not going to let you stay here by yourself and get drunk, Hawke.”  
  
“You’re full of bad ideas tonight, aren’t you?  If you want to get drunk, we’ll go to my room and do it the proper way.”  
  
She rolled her eyes and fixed them both with a look.  “Fine.  We’ll go to Varric’s suite and get drunk.  But I’m eating this bowl of stew first, and there’s no more talking.  Maker’s Light, Varric, you’d better have snacks up there, too.”

* * *

 

“You,” Hawke slurred, dragging her fingers across Fenris’s jawline.  “Are so.  Handsome.  Elf.”  She traced her fingers up his ear and gently pinched the tip of it.  Fenris moaned and leaned into her hand slightly.  
  
“Maker’s breath, when I said to get a room, I didn’t mean mine,” Varric said, from the huge chair in front of the hearth.  Hawke and Fenris were seated on the floor, backs against the wall, slumped on each other.  
  
It was… rather late.  Or early, depending on how you counted those things, and there had been _a lot_ of wine, and some brandy, and whiskey from somewhere.  Hawke felt flimsy enough that she could barely move, and Fenris had gotten more and more _handsy_ as the evening had progressed and the wine bottles emptied.  Varric had moved from “cheerful drunk” to “happy drunk” to “morose drunk,” which told her, if she could think straight about it, that Adamant had bothered him as much as it had bothered her.  He was now the kind of introspective and broody that Fenris could be on a good day; not normal for Varric at all, unless he was writing about it

“Marian,” Fenris said, and his words were as slurred as her own.  “You are so beautiful and you smell so good.  You smell like _home_ , Marian.”  He nuzzled his face against her neck and breathed out, clutching her tightly against him with one arm and the other arm holding just as tightly onto his prize of a bottle of wine.  It wasn’t great wine; in fact, this far into their cups, it was probably some of the worst wine that Skyhold had to offer.  However, this far into their cups, they weren’t exactly in a position to be judgmental re: quality of wine.  
  
“Fenris,” she murmured, resting her cheek on the top of his head and playing with his ear.  “I’m sorry I left with just a note.  That was… that was horrid of me.  That was… it was _horrid_ , Fenris.”  She wasn’t sure if she was talking about leaving with only that terse note or if she was talking about all the events after she left.  Perhaps it was a mix of both.  
  
“You’re not leaving again, Marian,” he told her, although it was rather muffled by alcohol and his insistence on keeping his mouth as close to her skin as possible.  Varric hadn’t commented on the bruises on her neck yet, but she was fairly certain that when he eventually became sober, he would be up there on the “top commenters” list.  Right up there with Dorian.  _Dorian_.  That reminded her…  
  
“Fenris, you can’t kill Dorian,” she said, urgently, trying to untangle herself from him.  
  
“I wasn’t planning on killing anyone right now,” he assured her, nipping at her skin lightly.  So he was drunk enough for _that_ , even in front of Varric.   
  
“’M’serious, Fenris.  You can’t kill Dorian.”  
  
“Dorian’s alright.  For a Tevinter mage,” Varric said.  He was lying across the chair, now, with his legs over the chair arm.  
  
“There are no Tevinter mages here.  Hawke checked.”   
  
“No… no _magisters_.  He’s not a _magister_.  He’s a mage.  And from Tevinter.  And you can’t kill him, Fenris, that would be rude.”  
  
“I’m not killing any magisters right now, Hawke.  Be quiet,” he told her, losing contact with the wine bottle and trying valiantly, if rather unsuccessfully, to slip his hand up the hem of her robe.  
  
“Not now, you oaf, later.”  She slapped ineffectually at his hand.  “ _Later_ , Fenris, you can’t kill him.  He’s funny.”  
  
“You’re funny,” he promised, seeking her lips with his own.  Hawke sighed before turning her head just so, brushing their lips together.  She tried, while she was still sober enough to remember.  
  
“Are you two going to charge for this show?”  Varric asked, seeming to come out of his brood enough to pay attention to his guests.  
  
“If you don’t want to watch, I suggest you go to bed, Varric,” Fenris broke away from Hawke long enough to say.  “Go fondle your weapon on your own.”  
  
“You’re really unfair, you know, elf.  You always get all the pretty ones.”  
  
Hawke glanced up, confused.  “What other pretty ones did he get?”  She looked towards Fenris, brows knitting in confusion.  “What other pretty ones did you get, Fenris?”  
  
“There was this one time,” Varric began, then chuckled.  “This one time, we went to The Crooked Gull, down by the docks.  Me ‘n the elf and Blondie and Choir Boy.  No girls allowed.”  
  
“Varric,” Fenris growled.  
  
“It’s funny, elf.  Anyway, we went there, and this woman...”  Varric shook his head, face going red.  “She tried to find out how far the elf’s markings went.  Beautiful woman, for a human.  Tall and well built.  Probably a whore, but half the women in the taverns by the docks were, so that’s not a big deal.  Never try to separate that man from that red ribbon, ‘s’all I’m saying.”  
  
“It’s Hawke’s ribbon,” he complained.   
  
“It’s Hawke’s ribbon and you two were ‘on a break,’ right, elf?  And being particularly broody about it that day.”  
  
“I miss Kirkwall,” she said, and it was her turn to rest her head against Fenris’s chest.  “I miss… those days.  Even… I miss Anders, sometimes.  And… and Merrill.  Even stupid Carver, before the Deep Roads and him being a Templar.  I miss them.”  
  
“You miss living with Gamlen in that shack in Lowtown?”  Varric laughed uproariously then, and even Fenris chuckled.  
  
“I miss the simple.  Simple city.  Simplicity.  I miss the _simplicity_ of it.  All I had to worry about was getting enough coin together for dinner and not getting caught by the Templars.  And now…”  
  
That put paid to Varric’s laughing.  “Now.  Yeah.”  
  
“Marian,” Fenris said, his attention back on the fact that the woman in his arms hadn’t been there the past few months.  “Marian, I have the best idea.  We should have _babies_.”  
  
“Maker’s breath, Fenris, you’ve had enough.  I’m cutting you off.”  He looked horrified for a minute, not really following what she was saying.  “I’m cutting off your _wine_ , Fenris,” she clarified.  She was drunk, but not _that_ drunk.  
  
“I love you, though, Marian,” he said, earnestly.  “I am _yours_.”  
  
“I know, Fen.”  She kissed the top of his head.  “And not a word tomorrow about this, Varric.  Today.  Later today.  Andraste’s ass, what time is it?”  
  
“Time for you to get Broody to bed, I think.  I like the idea of Hawkelings, but not so much the idea of them being made in my sitting room, if you get my drift.”  
  
“Ah, Varric, you always know how to set a woman’s heart aflame,” Hawke quipped. She struggled to get to her feet, pulling the hem of her robe down into a more respectful length and trying to stop Fenris from getting handsy and pulling her back down on top of him.  “Fenris, we need to go back to our room.  We can be drunk there as well as we can here and it’ll be more comfortable.”   
  
“Go on, kids,” Varric told them, somehow getting to his feet with a lot more grace than either she or Fenris were doing.  “You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”

* * *

 Everything hurt.  
  
Everything hurt, but especially her head, and her mouth kept filling with saliva, hot saliva, like she was going to—Yep, she was going to vomit.  And again, and, yes, again.  
  
Maker’s mercy, what had she done the previous night?  
  
On her bed, a half-dressed Fenris (and not the exciting half) was groaning and telling her to quiet down, he had a headache.  A headache!  Just a headache?  She vomited into the garderrobe once again, eyes clenched shut tightly and trying, _trying_ to not pay attention to the smell.  Maker have mercy on her, she would never drink again, until the next time she drank again.   
  
“It’s what you get,” Fenris said, woefully and unrepentantly not as hungover as she was, “for eating three bowls of stew and a whole loaf of bread before getting drunk.”  She hated him then, with the hate of a thousand fiery suns.  Taking the offered glass of water, she rinsed her mouth and spit, then poured the remaining over her head, enjoying the cool feeling as it washed over her face.  
  
Then she threw up again.  
  
“You remember,” she said, panting.  “You remember last night, Fenris?”  
  
“Vaguely, and with some remorse,” he said.  Ah, good.  Not so pain-free, after all.   
  
“And you said you wanted _babies_ , Fenris?”  
  
“Did I?  I can’t imagine why I would say such a thing.”  
  
“This is what you’d have to put up with for several months, Fenris.”  
  
“Perish the thought, then, Marian.  Although I suspect I would be slightly less hungover than I am now, which might make it easier to deal with.”  She pressed the cool glass against her forehead.   
  
“I’m not sure it would be easier to deal with for me,” she said, dryly.  Maker’s breath, was she really discussing this with him?   
  
“It’s entirely up to you, Marian,” he called into the garderrobe to her.  She scowled freely.  Entirely up to _her_.  As if.  
  
“Fenris, if it were entirely up to me we wouldn’t be discussing this right now, you would have brought it up months ago.”  
  
“Perhaps I simply didn’t have the courage to bring it up months ago, Marian.”  
  
“Fenris?”  
  
“Yes, Marian?”  
  
A pause, and then a slight whimper.  “I think I need more water, and some bread, and some chicken broth.”  
  
“And some tea?”  
  
“So long as I don’t have to smell it.  And some elfroot.”  
  
“I’ve always wondered,” he said, and he was obviously lying back on the bed again.  “Why do you just do not Heal yourself from this wretched condition?  Rejuvenate yourself?  It is within your power to do so.”  
  
She snorted, slightly.  “And lose the ability to learn my lesson?  No, ser.”  
  
“Marian.”  
  
“Fenris.”  
  
“I’ve known you ten years and you’re still drinking yourself sick the next morning.”  
  
“Only on my worst days.”  
  
“Seeing me again after months apart was one of your worst days?”   
  
“Realizing how badly I had messed up by not bringing you with me.  Although I will still contend, in the light of day, that you were much safer anywhere but Adamant, no matter what.”  
  
“I will get your bread and broth and tea, Marian.”  
  
“I love you.  You know that, right?”  
  
Now it was his turn to snort.  “You’d better.”

* * *

 

It was mid-afternoon before Hawke felt human enough again to leave their rooms.  Her head hurt less, her mouth felt less like leather, and her stomach was more settled.  Fenris, the wretch, always seemed to be able to get over hangovers as if they were nothing.  It was probably all those years of being holed up in that old mansion of Danarius’s, with little coin and not much to do other than be pestered by Hawke and drink a seemingly endless wine cellar, she thought, slightly spitefully.  At least he was willing to take care of her, and, indeed, seemed great delight in the idea of simply lying beside her in bed while she got over the worst of feeling like crap.   
  
By the time they decided they needed to check on Varric, Hawke was ready to get out of there, around other people, because she knew she owed Fenris some answers and didn’t want to provide them.  Also, he seemed fixated on the idea of “babies” and she didn’t want to talk about that.  Not so soon after Adamant, and not with the impending trip to Weisshaupt looming ahead of them.  Not while the world was at war against Corypheus, and not while she felt so unworthy of his affections as she was feeling right then. 

In the light of day, Hawke felt _guilty_.  She had _left_ Fenris, and had given him little indication that she was going to return.  Her _husband_ , Maker’s Light, how could she do such a thing?  Perhaps it was temporary insanity, or she was overwhelmed with fear she couldn’t control—she couldn’t remember the reasons and perhaps they didn’t matter, now that Fenris was with her and they were together and things were agreed upon, if “things” included “no being madder than necessary” and “drinking until the small hours is not the best idea.”  Hawke was _good_ at deciding _things_ , but leaving without him was a horrible decision and she was pretty much inclined to indulge him in most anything he wanted to assuage her own guilt.  
  
Right then, Fenris seemed to mainly want to see Hawke talking to people.  He always had enjoyed observing her interactions with others, even if it had meant that she involved herself with them, as he viewed, unnecessarily.  It was common for him to hang back and watch her talk, rarely taking part in the conversations himself.  Part of her had been concerned that it was ingrained on him from his days of being a slave, but even as the years persisted he did it, and Hawke decided, regardless of where he learned it, it was now part of his personality.  
  
Their first stop was picking up Varric, and there Hawke was forced to narrate what happened at Crestwood and the Western Approach and Adamant.  That took a while, a long while, and her headache just got worse and worse.  Fenris sat there in silence, for the most part, occasionally asking pertinent questions, for more description here or better detail there.  
  
It was _hard,_ and long, thirsty work, and when she got towards the end, when she had volunteered to stay in the Fade, to help the others escape…  
  
“Hawke,” he said, making a strangled noise that broke her heart.  “No, why would you do that?”  
  
“Think of how Leliana feels right now.  Think about how the Hero of Ferelden feels, or will feel, when she finds out her friend is dead?”  Hawke slumped back, closing her eyes tightly, balling her hands into fists.  “I… Corypheus was _my_ mistake, Fenris.”  
  
“Yours only?  Who else was with you in that prison, Hawke?  I was there.  Varric.  Carver.  Aveline.  Sebastian.  Even the abomination and the blood mage were there, and none of us had a good, compelling reason to do anything but what we did.”  
  
“I even suggested freeing the thing and working with it,” Varric said, disgruntled at the memory.   
  
“But it was my blood, my father—“  
  
“Don’t give me that, Hawke.  Take credit for your accomplishments and take blame for _your_ problems; that’s how you’ve always lived, how you’ve lived since I’ve known you.  Corypheus was not your fault, and staying behind in the Fade…” His voice wavered and he looked away, and her heart broke a little more.  Oh, she owed him big time.  “Hawke,” he said, strangled.  “Hawke.”  The last was a bare whisper.  
  
“But I’m here, Fenris.  I didn’t stay behind.  I’m here, and Alistair…  He was a good man.  A good Warden, who was there to save Ferelden and the rest of Thedas when the world needed him.  Twice.  Maker’s breath, I should have… I should have stayed.  The man was a hero, and I’m just…”  
  
“You’re _Hawke_ ,” he said, fiercely.  “You are my Hawke.  And I would not have forgiven you for staying behind.”  
  
She smirked bitterly.  “You wouldn’t have been able to find me in order to get onto me about it,” she told him.  
  
“Don’t bet on it, Hawke.” Oh, he was angry.  There would be words, later, and in private.  She suppressed a sigh.  Freedom was nice while it lasted; perhaps the Inquisitor would have to find another to go to the Wardens and she could…. Go home?  No, she couldn’t just abandon Varric like that.  A glance towards Fenris, the slightest slanting of her eyes, and she realized that where she went was pretty much going to be up to him for the time being.  She suppressed another sigh.  It _could_ be worse; he could stick her with Carver.  
  
“It was a tough call, elf,” Varric said, coming to her defense.  “It was a tough call and a tough situation.  You can’t know what you would have done unless you were there, facing it.  That Nightmare… that was one huge son of a bitch.  We all owe Alistair our lives.  If the Inquisitor chose Hawke to stay, I’d hate it, I’d have yelled and cussed and thrown things around, but in the end, I’d have had to accept it, because it was a lose-lose situation.”  
  
“Varric, that’s absurd,” Fenris growled, turning to him.  “Nothing is worth losing Hawke for.  _Nothing_.”  
  
“You know, you sound like Anders right now.”  Fenris looked at her, startled.  “He said… Towards the end, he said to me, one time, that he would drown us all in blood to keep me safe.  That’s… Fenris, our lives… They’re pretty much constant danger and threats and fighting.  You can’t keep me safe from everything.”  
  
“I can keep you safe from enough, Hawke.”  He stood up, angry, and stalked out of Varric’s quarters, slamming the door behind him.  
  
“Varric,” Hawke hissed.  “Why did you do this?  You put the idea into his head to ask these inane questions.  I could have kept him quiet for a few more days, at the least, until I could figure out how to word things so that he wouldn’t be so angry.  He’s never going to forgive me this, and I’m going to blame you.”  
  
“Don’t blame me because you didn’t want to explain to your _husband_ the dangers you refused to let him face by your side.  I’m not on your team for that one, Hawke.  That was a stupid choice.  I sent that letter to both of you because the Inquisition needed both of you, and we didn’t have enough time to send for him before you needed to go to Crestwood to meet up with Alistair.  I should have written him as soon as you got here, to let him know where you were.”  
  
“Varric!”  
  
“It’s the Maker’s own truth, Hawke.  Your life isn’t your own.  Maybe it never was.  You deserve every bit of his anger at your decisions right now.  You know I love you like a sister; better, closer than my own blood.  And you know I’m not going to lie to you to placate your sense of… whatever the Void you’re trying to placate.  Self-defeat?  Self-righteousness?  Shit, I’m getting too old for this.”  
  
Hawke could only sit there and stare at Varric in shock.  Was _that_ how he felt this entire time?  A faint tinge of red crept onto her cheeks and she tore her eyes away, biting on her bottom lip.  Minutes passed by in quiet, with Hawke desperately trying to not think about it and doing nothing but.  
  
“I… fucked up, Varric.”  
  
“No shit, Hawke, you fucked up.”  
  
“Do you think he’ll forgive me?”  
  
“Probably.  You forgave him over and over.  He’ll forgive you.  I’d suggest you find someone else to go to Weisshaupt, though.”  
  
Hawke shook her head.  “I can’t do that.  I promised the Inquisitor, and Maker knows she’s stretched far enough.  She can’t afford to send someone else because my husband doesn’t want me going.”  
  
“She’s got a name, you know.  Ellana Lavellan, of Clan Levellan, in the Free Marches.”  
  
Hawke stared at him in silence for a moment, and Varric shrugged, uncomfortable.  
  
“Listen, you hate people calling you Champion, right?  And ‘scion of the Amell family’?  I _know_ you hate that one.  Well, remember that she’s a woman, too, just like you are, and that she’s more than just the Inquisitor.  She’ll _understand_ , Hawke.  Send someone else.  There are plenty of recruits around here looking to make a name for themselves.  Hell, even Blackwall might be willing to go, given that he’s a Warden and all.  If nothing else, Nightingale will make sure that some ravens get there, although we may not hear back.  But go home.  Go back to Kirkwall, with your elf, and set things right.  Make little Hawkelings; I’ve always wanted to be an uncle, and Bartrand can’t give me nieces and nephews where he is now, can he?  My love stories don’t have happy endings, but this one isn’t _my_ story, Hawke, it’s yours.  Give it a happy ending.”  
  
“Varric…”  
  
“Hawke.”  
  
She sighed heavily and rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers.  “I can’t not go to Weisshaupt, but I promise, after that, we will go straight to Kirkwall.  And I won’t go somewhere without Fenris again.  I can’t… I can’t _not_ fulfill my obligation in this, but I will bring Fenris with me, I swear.”  
  
“It’s the best I’m going to get, isn’t it?”  
  
She shrugged, not really apologetically.  “It’s the best I can offer, right now.”  
  
“Maker help me, Hawke, if you don’t do what you’ve said you will…”  
  
“If I don’t,” she replied, “Fenris will probably have my ass worse than you’d ever be able to.”  She brushed strands of hair out of her face.  “And in return, you help me keep Fenris’s mind off my stupid decisions while we’re here.”  
  
“Only because it’s you, Hawke.”  
  
She smiled, then, a brittle smile.  “Thanks, Varric.”

* * *

 She wouldn’t go to Fenris.  
  
Their relationship was not like that.  When he was ready, he would come find her, and she would make sure he knew she was there, and that he had all the space he needed to brood.   
  
Despite the vestiges of the wicked hangover she still had, Hawke dragged Varric, also wickedly hungover, into The Herald’s Rest, where they played endless games of Wicked Grace and Diamondback, fleecing everyone they could out of their coin with a promise to split the winnings.  They had done it for years, back in Kirkwall, sometimes with Isabella, even, and no one was the wiser, not even Fenris.   
  
Alcohol was strictly off limits, because Hawke was going to need her head clear to deal with her broodiness of a husband, so she stuck strictly to water.  It was easier to win when you were sober, too.   
  
It was dark by the time he finally came in, and he never approached her directly.  Instead, he crept up, step by step.  She knew he was there, and he knew that she knew, but she would let him come to her on his own time.  Meanwhile, she laughed and joked and talked, and played hand after hand of Wicked Grace, waiting for him.  When it was closer to midnight than it was dinner time, she smiled regretfully and announced she was playing her last hand.  After, she split her winnings with Varric and sauntered vaguely towards the front door of the tavern, bidding everyone a very good night.  
  
He ghosted behind her as she climbed the stairs to their rooms, her shadow as he had been so often before.  Hawke knew that Fenris would speak in his own time, and that time would probably be within the privacy of their rooms and the safety of whatever wasn’t out in public.  It gave her time to think, about what she was going to say and how she was going to say it and what she was going to do.   
  
Neither of them spoke in their rooms.  Hawke set about getting ready for bed: changing into her sleeping shirt, brushing out her hair, washing her hands and her face.  The same tasks she did every night at home, back near Kirkwall, in their little cabin.   
  
She got into bed, and he soon followed, dressed only in his smalls; it was more comfortable for him to sleep that way, he had always said.  She lay back, propped up on her pillow, hands folded on her stomach and staring up at the ceiling as the last of the candle beside her bed drowned in a pool of wax.  
  
“Fenris,” she began, slowly and decisively.   
  
“Marian,” he replied, questioningly.  
  
“I… I am sorry, Fenris.”  
  
“I accept your apology, Marian.”  
  
She laughed ruefully and held out her hand for him.  He took her hand and squeezed it just slightly.  “I… I guess we’re going to need a bigger house, then, aren’t we?”  
  
“Are we now?”  
  
“For all the babies, of course.  I’m not getting any younger, Maker knows.”  
  
“I see.  And where are these babies going to come from?”  She let go of his hand and playfully swatted him against the chest.  “Well, in that case, best we get started.”  
  
Tonight, she was still Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and Fierce Vanquisher of Evildoers.  Tomorrow, she would be Marian Hawke, (31), retired.


End file.
